


Shadow in a Daydream

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Longing, Love, M/M, Season/Series 09, Unrequited Love, first time in a long time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezekiel is grateful for his refuge, for the safe harbor of Sam's body, so he stays out of Sam's conscious life, as he promised Dean. But then Sam kisses his brother for the first time in a long, long time, and Ezekiel's promises get much harder to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow in a Daydream

Despite the strangeness of his circumstances, Ezekiel is not afraid.

It surprises him, this fact. Perhaps because part of him is still trapped in the plummet, in the sudden sense of unmooring, of panic as he watched heaven fall away. Perhaps because part of him is still waiting for the ground beneath his feet—beneath Sam's—to give way.

There are those among his brothers who would say, who are certain, that they have never known fear. Have known only, always, that their swords moved in the service of God.

Among his brothers, these are the most righteous. 

For millennia, he honed himself for divinity in their image. On earth, as it was in heaven, even in the depths of hell, he fought with his garrison—beside Balthazar and Rachel, Ana and Castiel—their wings, their will as one.

The harmony of their blades, always, their greatest gift to the Father.

Until the last time they journeyed to hell.

It was not the first time Ezekiel had found himself holding the line, back-to-back with his brethren, wielding light in everlasting dark and keeping a way clear for Castiel to escape.

No. Not the first.

The last.

He remembers—now that he has the time to, now that he waits the wings of another Winchester's soul—he remembers Castiel ascending, streaking out of the Pit in a fury, a shooting star in reverse. Remembers the beautiful alien thing he saw twined in Castiel's heart, remembers tracing the curl of its being as it clung to grace and sang its grief, its gratitude. Its love.

Remembers Castiel soothing it, that soul, even as he roared at their enemies, struck the darkness down ruthless and never, ever turned back.

After that, it seemed, chaos reigned.

Still, Ezekiel was not one of those who feared, even when the war came. Even when Castiel returned, his grace smeared with blood and yes, certainty. Still. Ezekiel did not run.

He trusted Castiel. As did they all, the angels of their garrison. For a time, Castiel swung their wings, their will as one.

But they began to disappear, his brethren, some fled for corners unknown. Some into the arms of oblivion, he knows now, cast there by Castiel's hand.

For good reason. Surely.

In the end, Ezekiel was fortunate, he knows now, for he was wounded. Brought to the edge of death by one of Raphael's followers.

He remembers the sound his own grace made as it tore, as it ripped in his enemy's hands.

The quake of Castiel's wings over his face.

The press of _sleep now, brother_ in his ear as his adversary bellowed in fear.

Castiel, he knows now, kept him safe.

He was still weak when he fell, when the floor of heaven cracked. He was not yet all he had been.

He was fortunate to have heard Dean's prayer. To have recognized the hint of that soul song in Dean's voice, a sound he could never forget.

Yes. His circumstances now are most strange.

He is of a vessel, one of the strongest he has ever known. Yet he spends his hours cradling Sam's soul, threading his grace through its holes and pulling them together tight. Perhaps too. Forging a bond through which they both will heal. Simpatico, the humans call it. One as to one to the other.

He finds it exhausting, this work.

 _Sleep now, brother_ , someone breathes in his ear. In Sam's.

"Dean?" he hears Sam's mouth say. Sluggish and warm. 

A hand through Sam's hair. Gentle. Grateful.

"Shhh," the voice says again. Dean's. "You're fine. Just dreamin,' twitchy. I gotcha. You go on back to sleep."

There is love in Sam's soul, a rumble for which Ezekiel reaches. He tugs that feeling, Dean's voice, the way it makes Sam feel, over the tatters of his aching wings. 

As best he can, in time. He rests.

**

When Sam is awake, Ezekiel is careful to stay in the background. Content to hover just outside of Sam's consciousness. To give him the illusion of being alone. As he promised Dean that he would.

To accomplish this, though, is not easy. It means that he must remain silent. Must be still even as Sam's memories swirl, tangle with emotions that Ezekiel cannot understand, and dam up all of his thinking. Sam's. All of that humanity, all that feeling, it forms a river into which Ezekiel's grace can sink. Within which he can hide.

He is grateful for this refuge, as odd as it may be. Such intimacy with a soul.

He wonders how Castiel did it for so long without looking too closely. Without letting his grace drift, letting he and the host merge into one.

He has heard stories, of course. Tales of other angels, unscrupulous ones, who dove into vessels and grew greedy, snaked themselves through a soul and took what was not really theirs.

Just stories. The kind that Gabriel might have spun. Nothing more.

Still, he is careful. Keeps his grace soft away from Sam's soul. Shields his eyes, his awareness from all the man is.

Still.

There are times when Dean's wariness, his uncertainty, rolls off of him in uneasy waves. The way he looks at Sam, sometimes; it is as though he can see through his brother, through the veil, and there is no place for Ezekiel to hide.

In such moments, Ezekiel does his best to turn Sam's awareness away. To prevent him sensing Dean's fear.

This, he sees as his duty: to let Sam feel happy. Safe. Loved.

A fair exchange. One way to give some solace back.

There are other times, though, when Ezekiel is certain that Dean has forgotten that he exists, moments when Dean looks and sees only _Sam_ , he whom Dean has always loved.

This is how Sam feels, that is. When Dean looks at him like that.

Happy. Safe. Loved.

Even in the shelter of his grace, Ezekiel cannot help but know this. Sam's soul is simply too loud, too beautiful to avoid when it echoes with his brother's name.

And there is—something else, in such moments. A feeling that Ezekiel does not know. Something deep and warm, dangerous, a sense to which Sam, it seems, does not need to give name. It simply _is_ , when he gazes at Dean. When Dean's hand skates his shoulder or folds itself over his knee. 

Sam's shoulder, that is. Sam's knee.

To understand it, Ezekiel would have to look deeper. To let his grace take over Sam's conscious mind, if only for a moment or two.

To do so would not be wise. Even with the best of intentions, he is sure, the temptation would be too great. 

Those old stories have stayed with him, it seems.

Besides, although he cannot understand it, what it is that Sam feels for Dean, there is no question that, for Sam, the feeling is good. 

For Ezekiel, this is enough.

Of that, he is certain.

Until.

One afternoon, when Sam's mind is stretched out over the table before him, his fingers lost in the pleasure of knowledge. Of learning. Of the hunt.

Ezekiel is amused by his ardor, by his focus. By the way his lungs reach deep for the smell of old paper and dust, one that haunts the whole space, these solid rooms locked in time, but never is the scent stronger than here, when Sam's hands are stretched over parchment while his mind ticks over Latin or German or Greek. Lazy bees in the summer, Sam's thoughts.

Ezekiel drowses under their hum, for a time.

There's a scratch of a chair, wood bumped over the stone.

     _Dean_ , Sam thinks.

The press of a hand on Sam's back.

"Hey," Dean says, fingers catching as Sam's head turns. "How're you doing there, Giles? Ready to call in the Scooby Gang?"

     _You know that makes you Buffy._

This reference eludes him. It is not a new feeling. It is enough that Sam understands.

"Not quite," Sam says, his eyes drifting up. "Slow going, for the moment."

     _Oh_. 

He stares at Dean's mouth. The soft flash of tongue over teeth, in what looks like a kind of bemusement.

     _now really now? kiss you Dean want to god why_

"Tsk tsk, Sammy. You're slipping," Dean says.

Ezekiel hears him. But Sam, it seems, does not.

     _fuck yes now who cares why_

There's a sudden press of that thing that Ezekiel cannot name—of _desire_ , he knows, all at once—and then Sam is reaching, grabbing, holding, kissing his brother.

     _Dean. Oh god yes please kiss me back please want me too_

Ezekiel stumbles, feels himself falling away, as Dean shudders and kisses him back.

Sam.

     _thank you thank you baby god you feel so_

It has been a long time, Ezekiel realizes. A long time 

     _years damn it years we could have been_

since they have touched each other this way. Since Sam has let himself give in to it

     _afraid I hurt you hurt you so bad Dean thought you were dead I'm sorry thought you were_

and it frightens him, how much he wants. How ready that Dean is to give.

     _taste so good just the same just the same Dean I feel I love you like_

Ezekiel does his best to retreat, to turn his grace from this thing that is, that feels, so private. He doesn't want to hear and

     _hard for you fuck Dean come here can't touch you enough please need you to_

for the first time, he feels like an invader, like one who is taking what is not his. But the vessel, Sam, for all the safety it offers, it leaves him no place to run, especially when Sam turns, swings his body around and tugs Dean into his lap.

     _oh god you feel_

He is utterly overwhelmed with Dean, is Sam.

     _yes_

Is Ezekiel.

     _yes baby let me_

Dean's head falls back as he settles, knees digging into Sam's thighs. "Oh jesus fuck," he moans. "Sammy. Fuck, yes."

Sam shivers

     _your voice jesus Dean I swear all I need is your_

and he catches Dean's neck with one hand, his waist in the other, and they're kissing again, frantic, shoving into each other, scorching and sweet.

Counterpoint, one to the other: Dean's hips move down as Sam's arch up, and all at once Sam's soul overflows with images, memories, dreams of Dean's body 

     _yes open up for me let me back in can't wait to be_

under his, of hundreds of beds and years' worth of nights, of all the love that's been spilled between them, of all the opportunities they've lost to anger and resentment and fear. With all this, his soul fills, and Ezekiel's grace is flooded with light and light and it is not his fault. He did not wish to see this. To know.

Sam gave him no choice. 

     _crying why oh Dean you're so_

"Shh," Sam says, his mouth curving under Dean's chin. "Baby. Shhh. It's ok. Hold on to me, huh? It's ok. Hold on."

     _got you got you always you son of a_

He locks his arms around his brother's waist and stands up, lifting. Tucks Dean onto the table, his back buried in books, and leans over.

     _beautiful_

"Shhh," he whispers. "Dean. It's ok."

Dean's mouth opens and Sam takes that as an answer, a good one

     _yes open for me Dean good let me_

and they fall into slow, easy touches and kisses that have Dean's hands clutching, weaving their way into Sam's hair, even as Sam shoves his shirts up and tumbles his mouth down Dean's chest.

     _scar and this too god who hurt you but this one I know I remember how you_

" _Oh_ ," Dean says, voice ringing with pleasure. "Oh, god, Sam."

Sam's soul beams with pride, with 

     _right there missed that sound_

want, with love, and Ezekiel takes refuge in its shadow. He tries to, but his grace is full, his vessel overflowing, and he is drowning. It is too much. 

     _too much too far can't suck you right if you're_

Sam tugs Dean's hips to the edge of the table. Books flying and paper tearing as he falls to his knees

     _god look at you look you Dean missed this missed you so goddamn_

and presses hot kisses into Dean's thighs, biting at denim.

     _smell so good feel like_

He lifts his brother's legs

     _come on help me out here_

on his shoulders and leans in,

     _oh_

teeth catching metal and pulling.

"Baby," Dean breathes, twisted in tears. 

     _Dean please no don't be sad_

His cock in Sam's palm, familiar and missing and right there at last 

     _ah god_

as Sam takes his brother in, as Dean's body twists,

     _that's it come here I'll_

as Ezekiel's grace trembles.

     _need nothing more than this, always. so long. too long. Dean._

Sam wants. Sam aches. He needs as Dean moans 

     _best sound my name in your mouth_

and his hand finds his cock, rubs himself through his jeans.

     _could come like this just from your taste the noises you make for me fuck_

Dean yanks on his hair. Hard.

"Get your ass up here," he says. "Sammy. Come on."

     _oh yes jesus please_

Sam ducks away and stands up, leans over. 

     _Dean need you Dean_

Dean curves to meet him. Battles his zipper, and the shock of Dean's hand 

     _sweet fucking hell forgot forgot the way that you touch me christ I'm_

makes Sam jolt in a way that throws Ezekiel off balance and for a moment he can feel what Sam does: Dean's shoulders under his hands, his cock jerking in his brother's fist.

     _oh fuck me fuck please_

Ezekiel is full of the sense of unmooring, of a distance he longs to close, if only he could—

**No.**

He tears himself away, panicked, hears Dean's laugh through Sam's ears. A little wet sound at Sam's throat.

"Yeah," Dean says, squeezing. "That's right. You gonna shoot for me, sweetheart? You gonna come all over my cock?"

     _Dean_

" _Dean_ ," Sam whimpers. 

All that he is, all that he wants, is wound up in that single word.

**No.**

But Ezekiel's grace sings it back, low harmony deep with Sam's soul.

     **Dean**. _dean_. **Dean**.

He should not. He must not. But he is—

"Sit up a little for me, huh?" Dean says. "Just a little."

Sam pushes up

     _want to be inside you damn it somewhere you can't let me go_

even as his hips ride Dean's fist. Dean's hand opens. 

     _oh my god_

Traps them both between his fingers. Pulls.

     _can’t_

And this, this is the danger, the intimate temptation of souls. Because Ezekiel is greedy, amorous, strung through with avarice, wants to feel now, wants to see. Dean. He is swept up in the plummet again.

     _fuck Dean fuck you're so_

"Come on," Dean says. "Sammy. Feel so good, baby. You feel so fucking good."

Sam's head drops. 

     _beautiful how did I not touch why haven't we in so fuck I'm gonna_

He watches Dean's face as he moves, cheeks streaked in wet, yes, but his mouth flushed with a pleased heated smile

     _come jesus fuck Dean love you I love_

one that Sam claims as his own when he comes

one that Ezekiel swallows when he smothers Sam's soul, just for a moment, just long enough to feel those last tremors. Long enough to bask in Dean's love.

Long enough to open Sam's eyes, to see in Dean’s face that beautiful alien thing curled once in Castiel’s grace. To hear the song of his soul, of his love, but quick, Dean cannot know what he has—

 **Oh dear Father. What have I done**.

He flees the next instant, in barely the catch of a breath, but it was too much. Too close.

Ezekiel, then. He is afraid.

Dean yanks his hand free and grabs Sam's side, gets a fist of his shirt and grinds his hips, pushes his cock through the soft sticky mess 

     _yes yes that's right come on come on Dean you're_

and he comes with a hot heavy gasp somewhere in the back of Sam's throat.

     _good good baby so good for me_

His hips keep pulsing as Sam's kisses get lazy and thick. As they roll over Dean's chin and spill over the curve of his throat.

     _Dean love you missed feeling you come missed you so much I_

"Missed you," Sam whispers.

Dean's hands grow tight on his shoulders. Neither of them choose to let go.

Their love laps at the shores of Ezekiel's grace, still half-drowned, and he is certain that he would give all that he is to take Sam again, to claim that soul as his own. Just for a moment. Or two.

     _ **Dean**_ , they sing together, Ezekiel and Sam. 

     _dean_. **Dean**. _dean_.

 **Oh Father** , the angel thinks, wild. **Help me. What have I done?**

**Author's Note:**

> "sex must not be named imprudently, but its aspects, its correlations, and its effects must be pursued down to their slenderest ramifications: a shadow in a daydream, an image too slowly dispelled, a badly exorcised complicity between the body's mechanics and the mind's complacency" ~ Foucault, _History of Sexuality, Vol. I_


End file.
